It's All Downhill From Here
by Audley
Summary: It begins the way such things begin. Eames remembers exactly. Arthur doesn't, but then again he barely remembers the names of half the people he sleeps with, when he bothers to find out in the first place.  Arthur/Eames, one-shot


Yeah, Inception? Not mine.

Title is from a New Found Glory Song.

* * *

It begins the way such things begin. Eames remembers exactly. Arthur doesn't, but then again he barely remembers the names of half the people he sleeps with, when he bothers to find out in the first place.

But Eames remembers. It begins with Arthur planting a kiss on Eames' cheek, slurring his words together in a mockery of Eames' accent. It begins with Eames leading—carrying, more like—an Arthur who can't seem to remember which way his knees bend, into a hotel room, with the purest of intentions (to put him to bed until he sobered up). It begins with a drink at a bar (followed by many more), after a particularly rough job, and, as Arthur likes to say, with a half-amused, half-aroused smile, "It was downhill from there."

Eames can't help but agree, but he thinks now it was bound to happen sooner or later. Sexual deviant like Arthur, couldn't resist Eames's own natural charms.

He says as much to Arthur, in the hotel room that first night, when Eames figures out that Arthur isn't as drunk as he seems because he certainly seems to know exactly what he's doing—and Eames asks, smirking slightly, if he's been planning this all along.

A corner of Arthur's mouth tips up, Eames feels his heart tighten involuntarily, and that's all the answer he's ever gotten.

It begins with a one-night stand that turns into a two-night stand, then three, then four, then a week, then several, and it becomes a routine, one Eames loves without even realizing it.

Their daily lives are the same. They read their own papers, work their own jobs—sometimes together, sometimes not—and when night falls, or the job ends, they find each other. They kiss and they talk, and they fuck. And they fuck. And Eames—who, unlike Arthur, has no compunction about fucking and sharing—spills detail after detail to an unwilling Cobb and intrigued Mal about how absolutely fantastic the sex is, while Arthur squirms uncomfortably nearby and tries (and often fails) not to look too proud.

Arthur is naturally tight-lipped, but he is especially uncommunicative when it comes to discussing sexual exploits of times past, even though it's not like Eames doesn't know already—after all, the first time they met, Arthur was putting his latest—a petite blond—into a cab, with a gentle kiss and a firm shut of the door. Mal—always concerned—had warned him about Arthur's habits (all work, and all play), but Eames liked to see things for himself.

"Nice bird," Eames had said, nodding after the departing cab. "You Arthur, then?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows, mildly surprised. "Have you been following me?"

Eames shook his head. "I didn't have to, it seems. Left a trail of broken hearts behind you. Led me right here."

Arthur smiled. "Silly me."

(Eames remembers. For him, it begins here.)

Eames and Arthur keep their professional lives professional, until Eames finds out about the girl in Paris. And the girl in Tuscany. And the girls in Venezuela. Mal tells him. It's not a warning.

And when they're doing a double-layered dream to find somebody's mistress and Eames is the dreamer—his projections tear Arthur apart before he even takes a step through the door. It blows the job, both the client and Cobb blow up, and they have to leave Pakistan in a hurry before they get blown up (literally).

And later, when Eames finally confronts Arthur, all he does is shrug. His face is closed, his mouth tight. He doesn't kiss and tell. Which means they—those women, Arthur's (Eames hates the word) conquests—never know about him, just as he never knows about them. Arthur's kept them all in the same darkness, neatly filed under 'ways to pass the time.'

Still, Eames doesn't think that it's over. He thinks they might not have the same idea of what it is, but he's sure it's not a dream. He can remember when it started—but now he wonders if that counts as a start. There were no declarations, no promises, only tension and arguing and sex that became companionship and conversation and sex. He thought it was good enough. (It was more than good, for him.)

It continues, with less words and more fucking, but even that slowly starts to lose its appeal for Eames once he realizes Arthur's still sticking his cock into whoever else is available, and it doesn't stop until Eames is offered a job he can't refuse, far away.

And he goes, and he stays.

Mal dies.

He goes to the funeral, and murmurs condolences to Cobb (completely wrecked), and avoids eye contact with Arthur, and afterwards he stands in front of her grave and hates himself for wishing she had never said anything and for thinking about Arthur when Mal is dead.

(And he shouldn't think ill of the dead but he can't help himself, he hates her for it too.)

Three years and a death-defying three-layered dream puts them back where Eames thought they started—in a hotel room, but this time they're both completely hammered, because Cobb is gone and Saito is gone, and they don't even know if inception took—and Arthur cries and Eames holds him because no one else will.

They wake up the next morning and the first thing Arthur does is press his lips to Eames's cheek, and Eames pulls Arthur's mouth back up to his right away, just like he did the first time, and he thinks he's never before heard anything like the sound of Arthur's breath hitching in his chest, and he thinks he almost feels his own heart flutter in anticipation, but Arthur's hands are groping at the waistband of his trousers, and he can't think anymore.

Slowly, they start to rebuild.

Ariadne carelessly plunges herself into dreams again and again, relentlessly searching for a way down. Yusuf is broken, useless, no longer trusting himself to do much of anything. Arthur tries to take care of them, and Eames tries to take care of Arthur. When they sleep (if they sleep), it's together, because Arthur will scream himself awake if he sleeps alone. Eames keeps him distracted with sex, (and oh, what sex) because there was never anything that could take Arthur's mind off his troubles faster.

But he knows he's just waiting. Until Arthur can pick himself up in the mornings, and smile without trying too hard, and enter his own dreams without fear. He waits until Arthur starts ignoring him in favor of work, and noticing girls again. (Until Arthur doesn't need Eames anymore.)

Eames doesn't let himself feel jealous when he sees how closely Arthur works with Ariadne, the late nights they spend together—sometimes Arthur doesn't come back at all—the small glances, the worried crease between his eyes when he looks at her. He knows about the kiss, knows it's Arthur's favorite projection-distraction technique, and lets himself believe that's all it is. It's almost easy. (He knows better, this time.)

And then Eames leaves.

Eames has been in London for three months and he loves it like he never loved it before. He mocks it up and down, left and right, to the friends he meets in bars and on jobs, but he loves it because it's finally his choice to live there, and he's determined to stay. He's got a nice flat, with a small terrace and a welcome mat. He's even got a kitten, and a couple of plants. Eames is content. (Completely.)

He's sitting in his chair one night, toasting his feet in front of the fire he's made because it's raining outside, when someone starts pounding on the door. He ignores it.

Arthur waits outside what this time he's sure is Eames's door—the welcome mat, emblazoned with the phrase 'Home Is Where The Key Fits,' is indication enough. He's soaking wet, and dripping all over the stupid cheap mat, and cold. He pounds on the door again, resisting the urge to just kick it down.

He hears footsteps that stop in front of the door, and imagines he can sense Eames on the other side. He gives the door an impatient kick. Eames yanks it open and checks for scuffmarks. He frowns at Arthur, but says nothing.

It's Arthur, feeling water slosh in his shoes, who breaks the silence.

"Took me long enough to find the damn place, the least you could do is invite me in."

Eames crosses his arms over his chest. "No. You're going to track mud all over my clean floor."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "As if any floor owned by you knows what that means. I bet you're still living out of duffel bags and boxes."

"What are you doing here, Arthur?"

Silence again. Arthur just stares at Eames, standing impassively in the doorway. He swallows and shrugs one shoulder and tries to smile, only succeeding in lifting one side of his mouth. The other is wobbling in a threatening sort of way that he hopes makes him look pitiable and not deranged. Eames doesn't seem to be affected, either way.

Arthur looks down and takes a small step forward, leaning into Eames as much as his crossed arms will allow. "I missed you," he says into Eames's shoulder, his voice muffled. "Nothing was enough anymore."

"Nothing?"

Arthur looks up, still leaning on him, and nods—just once. Then Eames is pulling him inside and he's wrapping his arms around Arthur and Arthur presses against him, as close as he can get, and he puts his lips to Eames's cheek, and he remembers how it began.

(Maybe he was looking for it all along.)

* * *

Holy SHIT it's been a long time since I posted anything here.

This was orginally posted on the Eames/Arthur community over at LJ. (It's a good place, you should visit.)

Thanks to Arty d'Arc for betaing, and doing a fabulous job of it, as always.

Well, anyways, lovely to chat, must be off, hope you enjoy. Drop me a review if you do!

Ta!


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